


Nothing Personal, so They Say

by whatsacleverusername



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, In-Jokes, Interrogation, Kleptomania, Light Angst, Mild Gore, Newman hates his name if you can't tell, Organized Crime, Rivalry, Shameless Puns, lots of henchy henchmen here, not a lot of characters to tag, specifically Edwin went to Julliard, though Newman will be sticking around in universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 12:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: Business as semi-usual for Gotham's favorite kleptomaniac bibliophile.





	Nothing Personal, so They Say

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of an introduction to this version of Bookworm, as well as a reaffirmation that he isn't half as innocent as he seems.

Arriving at the location half a minute early, a man checks his directions again, glancing at the building before him. Sandwiched in between two abandoned stores, an equally rundown bookshop looks at him gloomily, its half boarded up windows like drooping eyelids. With a glance at his watch and exasperated sigh, he exits the russet town car and approaches the rotting wood door, hesitantly reaching for the ornate handle that appears as if it may fall out at any moment. A rush of warm air brings a stark contrast, both to the cold outside air and his assumption of the interior. Rather than "rundown", he finds the shop bustling and lively, for a bookshop, complete with warm lighting and a quiet but cheerful bell on the door. Looking back to see tarps blocking the honey colored light from creeping through the windows, the man looks around in awe, momentarily lost in the nigh _forest_ of books in ornately carved shelves, lining an intricate, carpeted pathway. At a loss for what else to do, he follows what he takes to be the main path, soon finding himself faced with a balcony, spiraling staircases on either end, wrought iron fencing the only barrier between the walkway and a direct drop into more shelves. Quite the gratuitous drop at that. Peering over the edge into the sprawling shop below, he's torn between pondering the distance and whether such an underground extension is entirely legal or not.

"May I help you?" The pleasant voice nearly makes him jump out of his skin, twirling around to find its source.

Dressed in a Victorian style suit, complete with a handkerchief in the breast pocket and some sort of flower in a lapel, his hair neatly combed back, a strangely normal looking man smiles up at him, the only really striking thing about himself being his slightly below average height. He holds himself with an air of self importance, one hand resting behind his back.

Adjusting his hat, the man clears his throat and says, "ah, yes. I'm here to see the Bookworm. Mr. Kingor."

"_Ach_, _bitte_," the man scoffs good-naturedly, "Mr. Kingor was my father. Please, call me Edwin. Or Mr. E if you're insistent on decorums."

"'Mr. E?'" the man asks, quirking a brow. "Another play on words."

"Play on…? I suspect you may be correct!" the odd little man laughs. "Scintillating how those things materialize, eh? Oh well, I presume you're here on business, yes?"

"Yes," the first answers flatly. "I assume you know why?"

With a mildly forlorn sigh, Bookworm nods, "I suppose I do. A pity; I was looking forward to seeing William again after such a long time. My own fault, hoping he could set aside the time… Well, come along then." Mounting the eastern set of stairs, Bookworm calls back, "who has he sent me this time?"

Doing his best to ignore the implications a criminal might use behind such words, he reluctantly follows with a simple answer of, "Newman."

"Ah, see, now who's the one with the play on words?" Bookworm teases, shooting a smile up at him through the divide between metal steps.

Refraining from rolling his eyes, Newman follows the eccentric bibliophile down the stairs and into his domain proper, nearly losing sight of him more than once within the trees of words. He tries his best to be patient as the rogue details his collection, telling him everything about all that comes to mind, from Wilde- who, according to himself, he had decided to style his outfit after for today- to Austen. Not entirely paying attention, he nervously looks to his watch, scowling as the minutes tick by with each tangential lecture. The man sounds more and more like a college professor by the second… Finally, within the center of the literary web, he opens the door to a study-slash-office, allowing him to enter first with a smile and slight bow. 

"Please, have a seat, Mr. Newman," Bookworm says, gesturing to an antiquated looking chair opposite a desk.

Suspicious, but knowing better than to go against the pleasantries, Newman sits in the chair, quickly addressing the purpose for his visit; "I'm sure you know why I'm here, Mr.- Edwin, but allow me to refresh your memory. You have _pilfered_ something from my employer's delivery, which is not only an unsightly affront between associated men of business, but-"

"Would you like some tea, dear?" Bookworm interrupts. "I apologize for the verbal obtrusion, but it has just occurred to me that I haven't even made the offer to take your coat for you."

"No," Newman says firmly. "Back to the matter at hand-"

"Truly, I must insist," Bookworm interrupts again. "I’ve recently fixed up a machine that’ll have it here from the kettle upstairs still warm, and it's been a terribly long time since I've been able to use it. I honestly ought to give it a few tests, and since you're present-"

"_Mr. Kingor_, I have a tight schedule to keep," Newman states, forcing himself back into the increasingly one sided conversation. "If we could _please_ stay on task, it would be much appreciated."

“Yes, of course,” Bookworm says as he sits at the desk, his smile faltering ever so briefly as he folds his hands together over the wood.

Adjusting his glasses, Newman begins, “as I’ve mentioned, you have taken something from my employer that was recently sent to him as a gift from a friend overseas. Not only is this an offence professionally, but interpersonally as well. I strongly suggest you return the book in a timely manner, or better yet give it to me.”

“Hüwel, correct?” Bookworm asks. “_Of Clocks and Time_. May of 2018, first edition. Rather recent, though I shouldn’t be surprised. Why, if it was anymore on brand…”

“Will you be handing me the book or not?” Newman presses, no longer bothering to hide his scowl.

Thinking for a moment, tapping a finger against the desk’s surface, Bookworm frowns and asks, “peradventure you might be able to return another time? I was just about to have the piece appraised and properly waterproofed, it would be a shame to cancel on such short notice. I’d imagine your employer of all people would-”

“Mr. Kingor,” Newman barks, standing up and planting his hands on the desk. “I _highly_ recommend you turn that book over to me _now_, unless you’d like to see your little shop go up in-”

“Now hold on one moment!” Bookworm says crossly. “This is a literary museum, not a library, and most certainly not a _shop_.”

“It doesn’t matter what it is!” Newman counters, rising in volume. “It won’t be anything for long if you don’t-”

A black shape swooping overhead cuts him off, knocking his hat off and grazing the top of his head with talons. The beast responsible, a crow with a pen in its beak, perches atop the office chair Bookworm is seated in, training a beady eye on the man opposite them.

Narrowing his own at the bird, Newman, hiding his sudden apprehension of the omen, hisses, “what is _that_ doing here?”

“Oh dear,” Bookworm murmurs, ignoring Newman’s question. “She must have been startled by the folderol. She doesn’t care for loud noises, you see. Rather fitting for such an environment, don’t you think?”

“Why is it here?” Newman furthers.

“Mary stays here,” Bookworm explains. “She favors being here, at least. Mostly on account of the abundance of pens, I’d imagine.”

Smiling up at the corvid, Bookworm stands up to offer it his arm, whispering gently to coax it onto his sleeve. He gently strokes its head once it complies, taking the pen from its beak and returning to his seated position. Inspecting his hat for damages, Newman places it back on his head, cautiously casting a glance around the semi spacious room. Just as bats entail broken bones in this city, Gotham’s residents, criminals and crusaders alike, know such creatures mean terror isn’t far off…

Glowering at the pair before him, Newman forces a cold tone to his voice as he states, “unless you hand the book over to me now, I will have no choice but to leave and report your lack of cooperation.”

Sighing as he carefully brushes a finger against the crow’s beak, Bookworm concedes, “very well. Allow me a moment to call Mr.-”

“No,” Newman states firmly. “You will not call anyone. You will hand me the book. There will be no middle men, no chance for slights or tricks.”

“I’m afraid it’s policy, Mr. Newman,” Bookworm frowns, looking past him and nodding.

Taking far too much time to react, Newman turns his head just as a large man seizes him with an arm around his chest and arms. Adding another around his neck, he lifts Newman up effortlessly, crushing his windpipe, all the while Bookworm and the damned crow watch with a look of mild displeasure. As if watching an unruly customer being removed from the premises. Desperately clawing at the man’s strong arm, Newman chokes something out, beginning to kick his legs wildly. He manages to knock over the chair in his struggle before landing a few solid kicks to the man’s legs, though they don’t seem to faze him. Spots beginning to dance in his blurring vision, the last thing Newman can make out is Bookworm disdainfully shaking his head before all goes black.

Groaning as he fights his way back to consciousness, Newman raises his hand to rub at the bruises undoubtedly forming around his neck… Only his arm remains firmly in place. Instinctively trying the other arm, which is, of course, rendered immobile as well, he warily opens his eyes to address his situation. He’s tied down to an old wooden chair in a completely different yet startlingly similar room as before, albeit far more empty, his own burgundy tie around one arm and a weathered looking length of rope around the other. His coat, hat, watch, and false glasses are missing. It’s cold in the room, which tells him he’s not in the same building anymore. At least not in the same part. Grimacing, he tests the rope, pushing down with his elbow and flexing his forearm but to no avail. True to the theme of all not being what it seems today, it holds fast, evidently more than capable of fulfilling its duty if the suspicious stains around it are anything to go by. Choosing to ignore the implications of other poor sods rubbing their wrists bloody and raw, except to heed such imagined warnings, Newman instead focuses on calming his nerves and stilling his breath. His concentration is promptly interrupted, however, as several pairs of black wings narrowly miss his head. They perch in the rafters, staring down at him as he tries not to shrink in his seat. Though if _he’s_ around, it doesn’t really matter. He always knows. Newman can only grit his teeth and sit up straight, schooling his features as footsteps approach him from behind.

“Now I know what you’re thinking,” Bookworm says, walking around to face him. He’s both relieved and confused to find the Bookworm taunting him rather than the alternative. “‘Well, isn’t this ironic?’ No. It’s not. _Because_ this a coincidence, albeit a rotten one- for both of us, I assure you- _not_ irony. Now, if you had intended specifically _not_ to be bound to a chair and interrogated, which I sincerely hope you weren’t for your own sake, it would be irony. Situational, to be more exact, as there are different kinds."

Letting him rattle on about the differences and proper usage of irony’s different forms, Newman takes the opportunity to scan his surroundings, quickly spotting a camera on the wall, as well as two shadowed figures as his eyes adjust to the poor light. Before any plan he might form could be put into action, the strawberry blond jabs something into his neck, a sharp electric pain searing through him before his body collapses.

“Just so we’re clear, I did say ‘interrogate’,” Bookworm says, pulling the pen shaped instrument away, “and I have a tendency to mean what I say.”

Only able to manage a shuddering groan, Newman rolls his head onto his shoulder to look at Bookworm sideways, his mouth limply hanging open. Despite the less than attentive body language, his gray eyes remain trained on the criminal, coated in malice and dripping venom.

Completely disregarding the potent leer, Bookworm turns to the shadowy men, motioning for them to approach, calling, “come along, let’s not keep Mr. Newman waiting.”

Recognizing one of them as the brute from earlier, Newman scowls at the approaching men, quickly returning to his search for some sort of escape plan. Though as he attempts to act on one, a rough hand on the back of the chair stops him. Tilting it back, a man with a deep scar over his lip presses a knife to the middle of Newman’s neck, just above the jugular. Reflexively gulping and raising his chin, he glares back at his captor before returning his attention to the bastard calling the shots.

“What do you want?” he seethes.

“What do people usually want when displaying such power over another like this?” Bookworm asks. “Money? I already have that. An item of interest? The first edition is being properly filed away as we speak. What could it be then, do you think?”

They stare at each other for a moment, Newman trying to read him before answering, “knowledge. What can _you_ possibly not know already?”

“Many things,” Bookworm smiles without the pleasantness from before. “Lost works, apocrypha, undiscovered portions of history, government secrets- Oh, secrets in general are my second favorite thing to discover, second only to previously unreleased pieces. Of all the people I know, in all iterations of personal, do you know who has some of the most secrets? Clock King. I do hope you realize where I’m going.”

“If you think I know anything more than you,” Newman all but spits, “then this would be the first time my employer has given me false information. Supposedly, you’re more clever than tha-”

Cutting himself off in the effort to bite back a scream as the electric pen returns to zap his nerves, in his arm this time, Newman fights away the unconsciousness threatening to creep over his mind.

“Please do us both a favor, dear,” Bookworm says condescendingly, “and save your breath for the elucidation rather than the back talk.”

While maintaining his glare, Newman remains silent and still. Nodding once in approval, Bookworm looks to the man not holding his captive, watching him as he carries out his silent instructions. He casts a sideways glance to the captive henchman as the man returns, watching his expression as he’s handed what looks like a regular revolver. Knowing the fiendish inventor, however, he knows better than to trust appearances. He’s learned as much over the course of this interaction, at least.

“Now, Mr. Newman,” Bookworm begins with a disdainful frown, casually waving the firearm for emphasis like a chichi, rococo critic would a lit cigarette in older movies. “You and I both are both certain you know what I _want_ to know, so let’s skip past the denial and distraction, hm?” Not giving Newman much of a chance to reply, he looks to a third man emerging from the shadows before asking, “name?”

“N- Name?” Newman echoes.

“Your name,” Bookworm clarifies. “Full name.”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Newman grumbles, “Temple Ajax Newman.” At an odd look from all present, he adds, “my parents should’ve never had a child.”

Shaking his head and looking to the third man, who had begun writing things down, Bookworm asks, “what services do you do for William? Fronting, muscle work, accounting, etcetera.”

“Errands,” Newman says dully.

“Be more definitive,” the rogue ever so politely demands.

“Filling in the schedule, so to speak,” the henchman answers. “Attending meetings Mr. Tockman cannot and such.”

“I see,” Bookworm mumbles, signing something to his scribe that has Newman narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “Are you the only stand in, _so to speak_?”

“For sensitive work,” he answers.

“‘Sensitive’, eh?” Bookworm alludes, giving him another side glance.

“That’s what I said, why?” Newman counters warningly.

“Never mind. How often are you on the clock?” Bookworm continues.

“As often as I’m needed,” he all but snaps.

Sighing and shaking his head, Bookworm makes some other sign at the scribe before shifting topic, inquiring, “what locus is our William currently based at?”

Raising an incredulous eyebrow, Newman says, “you can’t seriously expect me to reveal it just like that.”

“Ah, and yet I had hoped,” Bookworm sighs, looking towards the man by the chair.

Without so much as a breath, he swiftly moves the knife, slicing his captive’s cheek and returning to his throat in one fluid movement. Hissing in pain, Newman stops himself from flinching with a deep breath.

“I’ll ask you again, sir,” Bookworm states. “Where is he hiding?”

“As if I’d be at liberty to-” He’s cut off by another cut to the other cheek, far deeper than the last.

“If you’re attempting to whittle down my patience, you’re doing a splendid job,” Bookworm frowns. “One last chance.”

“You’re better off asking a brick wall,” Newman bites.

Sighing, Bookworm pouts, “you know, I really had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

Watching him ready the gun, Newman scoffs, “you’re bluffing.”

Taking aim, draining any and all semblance of friendliness from his expression Bookworm challenges, “am I?”

Unable to keep a chill from creeping up his spine at the abrupt change, Newman stammers, “y- You’re a pacifist, you won’t shoot-”

The explosive sound of the gun firing cuts him off, a godawful pain in his leg forcing him to screw his face up in agony. A normal gun, now of all times…

“A word to the wise,” Bookworm chastises, spinning the barrel on the revolver, “don’t tell me what I will and won’t do." Taking aim lower down his leg, he orders, "start talking. Or don’t. Just remember _you’re_ walking yourself back out once all is said and done.”

Gritting his teeth, Newman growls, "the 42nd street chapel."

"With the clock, of course," Bookworm comments, fondly shaking his head. "Old habits die hard. Granted I'm not one to talk. _Signor_ Fitch?"

Looking up from his notebook, the scribe blinks through thick bottle glasses and nods ever so slightly, quickly scribbling something out and writing in its place. Smiling in approval, Bookworm gestures with the revolver towards the man by the chair, who immediately lets go and removes the knife from Newman's throat. He can't help but sit there and stare in utter confusion, even as he's cut free and his tie is expertly undone from his other arm and handed back to him, as the scribe shows Bookworm his notes and they converse in some foreign language, as a large garage door is opened behind him and the sound of pouring rain fills the room. Noticing he hasn't moved an inch, Bookworm raises his eyebrows, holding a finger up for the scribe to pause.

"Well?" he asks, gesturing to the door behind them.

"Is that it?" Newman answers incredulously.

"You almost sound disappointed," Bookworm patronizes. "Yes, that's all. This concludes my business with you. Please make a prompt exit, as I have other affairs to attend to"

"This- You're- You're ridiculous!" Newman shouts, jumping up and immediately regretting the action. "All of this, just- Just for- That?"

Sharing a look with the scribe, Bookworm sighs and pulls the trigger, the bullet landing in his foot this time and forcing him to sit again. Shaking his head like a disappointed teacher, Bookworm hands the scribe his gun and steps back over to Newman.

"I really do think it's best if you leave now, dear," he smiles, leaning over and making sure to pat the cheek with the deeper cut. All but pulling him out of the chair and forcing him toward the door, he adds, “oh, and you can inform William of what you told me if you like; if I’m in hot water, you’ll be _boiling_, I’m afraid.”

Clenching his fists hard enough to press half moon shapes into his palms, both in outraged fury and an effort to endure the pain, Newman sends one last potent glare towards the Bookworm and his employees as he hobbles towards the door and into the rain. He doesn't dare inquire about his coat. He can feel his car keys in his pants pocket at least. God, he'll have to explain why not only the book but the watch he was given as well is- Forcing the thoughts of dread from his mind, he focuses instead on finding where he is and getting to his car through the downpour that had begun torrenting from the heavens. The sooner he gets to his car, the sooner he can get out of this freezing rain.

Watching the dishevelled man leave until he can no longer be seen through the storm, Edwin drops his act with a shaky, grimacing sigh and brushes his hair back, unknowingly smearing some of the blood on his palm across his forehead, mumbling, “I don’t know how Oswald does this for a living…”

"Chardonnay?" Alexie, the man with the scarred lip, asks.

"No, no, tea will be fine," Edwin waves off. "Peppermint, please. Light on the sugar, I think."

With nothing more than a nod, Alexie prowls off to the main building to prepare a cup, closing the large door as he goes. Reviewing Fitch’s notes once more, Edwin approves them with a few words in Italian and sends him off, sitting in the chair with a tired sigh. A warm coat that’s too big to be his is soon draped around his shoulders, a hand large enough to crush his arm held out to him.

Taking the hand and allowing himself to be helped up, Edwin says, “_Danke_, Hugo. Let’s head to the study.”

“Yes, sir,” Hugo acknowledges, walking after Edwin as he follows Alexie out. “What will we do about Tockman?”

"I think it's high time I pay William a _much_ needed visit," Edwin contemplates aloud. “It would be a shame if he thought this was all in show.”

“Reckon I should tell the contacts you’ll be busy, then?” Hugo offers.

“Yes, but I’ll be the one to inform Jonathan,” Edwin decides. “He’ll turn this into something much bigger than it needs to be if someone else tells him. He worries, you know. It’s a miracle he hasn’t worried himself gray yet.” As they pass under the crows, who swoop down to fly ahead, he points an accusing finger at them and says, “don’t you go telling him, either. Such chatty things. Far too prone to gossip for their own good.”

Continuing to ramble, simply thinking aloud, Edwin leads Hugo through the passage heading to the main site, trying to calm himself down again. He can’t run a business thinking about the cold iron of the revolver in his hand, the loud gunshots, the sickening sound as bullet meets body- Frowning, he retrieves a handkerchief from the recently acquired coat, cleaning its previous owner’s blood from his hand and forehead with a shudder. Automatically glancing at the red smear, quickly regretting it, he grimaces and hands it backwards to Hugo. Whether he took it or not when he dropped the fabric is unclear, Edwin more preoccupied with the staticy, buzzing tendrils of panic creeping into his mind. Business can be handled later. For now, he needs to remember his exercises; in for four, hold for three, out for five… In for four, hold for three, out for five… The tea should help. Hopefully. He’d rather have time to think up a way to downsize that whole exchange before calling his psychologist. He’ll be more likely to listen if Edwin isn’t hyperventilating.


End file.
